by Lauran Paine
“Go!” snarled the lawman.
Alf picked up the silver dollar and walked briskly out of the saloon.
The marshal was ready to leave also when three old men shuffled in and the barman sighed, gave his head a slight wag, and as the old gaffers headed for a round table near the woodstove, he drew off three nickel glasses of beer, picked up a box of wooden matches and a deck of greasy old playing cards and went over to the table where the gaffers were shedding disreputable old coats and getting settled for their game of matchstick poker. They paid the barman. He went back behind his bar, saw one of the freighters eyeing him pensively, and leaned to say, “Every damned day, rain or shine—except durin’ the storm,” and went on down to finish drying oily shot glasses.
As Al Poole was crossing toward the roadway doors, one of the old gaffers casually hailed him. “Marshal, there’s a feller waitin’ for you at the jailhouse. I seen him walk in a few minutes ago.”
“Fat feller dressed all in black?”
“Naw. Big old rawboned man, maybe a little older’n you.”
Poole walked out into the damp heat, struck out for the opposite plankwalk, and turned southward.
Behind him three men emerged from the saloon and stood watching the lawman’s progress. One of them said, “I’ll take care of the gent with the squeaky voice,” and turned southward. The other two lingered long enough to share a plug and get their cuds settled properly, then ambled diagonally in the direction of the poolhall, which was between the abstract office and the harness shop.
There was considerable roadway traffic, mostly pedestrian and mostly female, but there were a few horsemen and a couple of rigs sinking into the roadway fill.
Doctor Barlow was across the road, heading briskly in the direction of the roominghouse, from which an agitated proprietor had come breathlessly to summon him for an ill man. The roominghouse owner had already diagnosed the sick man and had told Barlow it was the flux, which was bad enough, but when his other guests had heard what had put the ill man down, they vacated the place; some had left so hurriedly that they’d neglected to pay up.
Walt Barlow saw Marshal Poole enter the jailhouse. So did a number of other townsmen. They paid no heed, but if they could have seen Poole’s face as he went to sit at his desk while his visitor was speaking to him, they would have been quite interested.
The rangy older man was sitting with his hat shoved back, long legs thrust out, thumbs hooked in a heavy old shell belt. He had not introduced himself when the marshal had walked in and nodded, but had simply said, “It’s a right lively town, marshal. I been in a lot just like it, but this is the first time I been marooned in a strange place ’cause of rain.” The older man was gazing at his boot toes as he spoke. “It wasn’t my choice, an’ for a fact I wasn’t real sure I would ever leave Harmonville the way that water built up. . . . Can you swim, marshal?”
Poole had his fingers interlocked in front of him atop the table. He shook his head while eyeing his visitor in silence. The man made him uncomfortable.
“Neither can I, marshal. I can do a lot of things, but I never learned to swim, an’ from my upstairs window at the roominghouse, I never saw so damned much water out of a riverbed in my life.” The stranger raised flinty blue eyes. “By the way, they got a sick man down there. He’s got the bloody flux. You know how that can spread, marshal. I can tell you from experience, it can put a whole town flat on its back.”
Al Poole finally unclasped his hands and leaned back. “We got a doctor. He’ll take care of it. Now then, I got a lot to do this morning, so . . .”
The flinty blue eyes remained calmly on Al Poole as the stranger said, “Sure. I understand. Your town’s been through a real calamity. There’ll be plenty for a lawman to do. My name’s Dallas Pierce. I was on a coach the day when that roadway out there was runnin’ water better’n knee high. A man couldn’t see nothin’ but water. There was two fellers crossin’ over when we come down toward the corralyard. One of ’em, a stocky feller, hurled himself at the nearside leader and forced the horses to turn right or they’d have stepped into a hole deep enough to hide a big calf in. That damned horse swerved, the driver was cussin’ something fierce. As the coach swung clear of the hole . . . I’m here to tell you if one front wheel had gone into that hole, marshal, the rig would have gone over. As the coach swung clear and brushed past that stocky feller, him and I was no more’n twelve inches apart an’ face to face. He didn’t just save the horses an’ the coach. He saved us passengers who was inside. Sure as hell if that stage had gone over, we’d have been bad hurt if we didn’t drown.”
Marshal Poole continued to eye Dallas Pierce as he slowly leaned forward on the tabletop again. “Dallas Pierce?”
“Yes.” The rangy man’s eyes were stone-steady as he replied, without adding anything to that one word.
“Dallas Pierce, the U.S. marshal?”
This time the rawboned older man simply nodded his head.
Al Poole was silent for a long while, studying his visitor. Finally he said, “The road’s fixed now. The stages are running again.”
Dallas Pierce returned to the study of his boot toes. “I was goin’ to leave yesterday an’ missed the damned evening stage. This morning I was standin’ out front of the cafe when the southbound rolled in.” Pierce’s gaze came up. “You know who was on it?”
Poole was beginning to have an upset stomach. “Yeah. Judge Collins.”
Dallas Pierce shot up to his feet. He gazed at Al Poole with a faint smile. “Ambrose Collins. I’ve known that old high-binder for fifteen years. I figured I’d stay over for a day or two, let him buy me a few drinks. . . . Marshal?”
“Yes.”
“I was over in the corralyard earlier seein’ about some schedules, and one of the yardmen told me you had that feller who maybe saved my life, and sure as hell saved them horses and the old coach, in one of your cells. Him and the other feller, the big older man.”
Poole arose slowly. “They are freegrazers. They attacked some rangemen in the night, hurt one real bad. They been grazing off grass that belongs to one of our biggest cowmen.”
Dallas Pierce nodded thoughtfully, turned, and left the jailhouse without another word.
Chapter Sixteen
Dealing a New Hand
The man who managed the poolhall for its owner, who was the same man who owned the saloon across the road, was named Hugh Fenwick. He’d been suffering from a bad back since a horse had fallen with him eight years earlier.
Hugh was gray and a little pinched in the face. At one time he had not only been a good stockman but had earned quite a reputation as a horse breaker.
Now he was sitting erectly on the special chair the town carpenter had built for him while three local men he knew were playing pool at one of his tables and three other men he did not know but had seen around town lately were racking up at the other table.
Hugh picked up a ragged newspaper. In a place like Harmonville it did not matter whether news was fresh or not because it would have no local effect.
His patrons were joking a little, among themselves and not with the players at the other table. Outside, Doctor Barlow walked northward in the direction of his cottage. On the opposite side of the roadway a man called and waved. Barlow waved back.
A large blue-tailed fly came into the poolhall. The manager watched it circling for a while, then carefully folded his newspaper. But the fly moved toward the distant tables, so the manager unfolded his paper. He was speculating about the advantages of a back brace advertised in the newspaper, which looked exactly like a lady’s corset, when someone said, “Mister, that’s the third time. The next time you punch me with your damned elbow I’m going to pull it off you.”
The manager did not have a chance to get off his chair before the brawl erupted. He bellowed at the top of his voice. The effect was the same as though he’d said nothing. He leaned to support himself with both hands on a little table as he eased out of the chair.
One of the strangers had slow-witted big George Kendal maneuvered into a corner, and while George was as strong as an ox, so long as he was unable to get out of the corner he was unable to make much of an impression on the man facing him. His adversary was standing wide-legged and flat down. While George was being peppered by stinging blows, the stranger was ducking and weaving. George lunged at him, swinging like a windmill, but the lighter man hit him in the middle, which folded him over, then hit him alongside the head, and George went down without a sound.
Across the room, beyond the farthest pool table, drawling, big, deep-voiced Buff Brady was slugging it out toe-to-toe with another of the strangers. The manager with the bad back got to his wall rack and was standing there holding a heavy pool cue. It wasn’t pain that kept him over there, but simply fascination.
Buff Brady had a reputation in Harmonville for being able to absorb more punishment and give back more of the same than anyone around. Unlike slow-witted big George Kendal, Brady was neither dense nor clumsy. What held the poolhall manager stone-still was the way neither Buff nor the man facing him was yielding a step. He grounded the cue and leaned on it.
The third stranger was down on the floor with Paul Sawyer, but Paul’s heart was not in it. He’d been having trouble with his arms and legs since his circulation was cut off by tight bindings in the woodshed across the alley from the livery barn.
That fight ended with Paul saying, “That’s enough,” and covering his face until his adversary stood up and yanked Paul to his feet and punched him over against the wall.
The last two battlers were still standing toe-to-toe. The poolhall manager said loudly, “That’s plenty. Buff, step back.”
Brady acted as though he were deaf, but his eyes flickered. The next moment, dozens of tiny, multicolored lights flashed brilliantly in his sight, and he fell.
The manager shuffled over to prod him with his pool cue, then to face around scowling at the three men who were stuffing in shirttails and flexing raw knuckles. One of the strangers placed two silver dollars on the green cloth of a pool table and said, “We didn’t start it.”
The manager looked from the strangers to the cartwheels and relaxed. But as he was shuffling over to rack up his cue he sternly said, “Clear out an’ don’t come back.”
The strangers went over to Paul, shoving him roughly ahead of them on their way toward the doorway, and the last the manager saw of them they were turning northward still driving Paul ahead of them.
Down at the south end of town there had been another confrontation, but this one was much shorter. Neither the proprietor nor his dayman was in the runway when a husky bearded man approached reedy-voiced Alf Owens as he was saddling a horse, tapped him on the shoulder, and when Alf twisted, the husky man said, “Kind of muggy weather to be riding, friend.”
Alf looked baffled.
The husky man reached past, took the horse by the reins, and without another word yanked the latigo loose, freed the flank cinch, and dumped the saddle on the ground.
Alf started to protest. The bearded man barely changed position as he lashed out with his open hand, knocked Alf against a distant horse stall, led the saddleless horse to a ring in the wall, and left him tied there by the reins. Then he went over where Alf was blinking away cobwebs. The husky man squatted, picked up Alf’s hat, punched it down atop his head, and put a work-thickened big hand on Alf’s shoulder. “You all right?” he asked. Alf was gingerly exploring his cheek, which was red and tender. He did not reply, so the husky man arose, still holding Alf by the shoulder, and brought him up with his back to the horse stall. His grip on Alf’s shoulder tightened slightly as he asked where Alf had been going. When there was no reply the grip tightened, and continued to tighten until Alf squawked and would have pulled free except that the grip made it impossible.
“Riding out,” Alf gasped, trying to lower the side of his body that was being hurt. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Mack. Where was you riding to?”
“Out. North was a ways. Just riding.”
The grip tightened until the bone beneath the flesh was being bruised. Mack did not raise his voice. “North? Why north? Mister, I’ll break your bones in a minute. Why north?”
Alf could scarcely speak because of the pain. “To find a feller.”
“Mister Baxter?”
Despite the pain, Alf’s eyes widened on the bearded man. “Yes. Mister Baxter.”
Mack abruptly freed Alf and stood gazing thoughtfully at him. Alf sagged against the stall wall. Pain continued to spiral through his body even though the bearded man’s grip was gone. He said, “Who are you?”
“I told you. My name is Mack. What’s your name?”
“Alfred Owens. . . . I don’t know you. Why did you—?”
“Because I don’t think you ought to go up there and warn Mister Baxter.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to warn him.”
“Lyin’ could get you hurt bad someday, Alf. I was in the saloon a while back. Remember?”
Alf’s face congealed. He remembered. There had been three of them.
The husky man lazily rolled his head sideways. “Let’s go out into the alley. We’ll go up to the north end of town. I got a wagoncamp out a mile or so on a little knoll. My brothers’ll be waitin’ for us out there. Hand me your gun, butt first.”
The bearded man methodically shucked out the loads, pocketed them, and dropped the weapon back into its holster. He gave Alf a rough slap on the injured shoulder as he said, “We’re going up the alley like we’re old friends.”
Alf was sore and bewildered. Of one thing he was reasonably certain: he had never seen the husky man before he saw him earlier up at the saloon.
He did not speak as they went trudging up the alley with its damp earth underfoot, but his companion did. He said, “Tell me about Mister Baxter.”
“Nothin’ to tell. He runs a lot of cattle south of the foothills. He’s got a lot of holdings and maybe six or eight riders.” Alf suddenly stopped speaking and turned to stare at the husky man. “Are you a freegrazer?” he asked.
Mack smiled. “Nope. We’re freighters. We’ve run across freegrazers though. Folks aren’t real fond of them, but I got to tell you, Alf, my brothers and I don’t care one way or another. We don’t own no land. We camp where we got to, and sometimes cowmen run us off.” Mack was still smiling as he looked down into Alf’s troubled face. “What you got against freegrazers? You own grassland, do you?”
“No. When I can I ride for stockmen though.”
“Alf, you take their side?” Before Alf could reply, Mack put another question to him. “Mister Baxter an’ Marshal Poole pee through the same knothole, do they?”
Alf groped for an answer, found nothing he wanted to put into words, and saw the husky man’s big hand coming up, so he blurted out something. “They’re friends. Been friends since Marshal Poole come to the territory.”
“Got cattle interests together, have they?”
“No. Denton Baxter’s the cattleman. Al Poole is the town marshal.”
Mack said no more. They were approaching the upper end of the alley. When they continued northward there would be nothing to prevent people from seeing them. Alf hesitated beside his companion, afraid they might meet Al Poole, and at the same time hoping they would. He had an idea what lay ahead, but what he could not understand was why this freighter, and his friends or brothers or whoever they were, were getting involved in something that had nothing to do with them. At least it had nothing to do with them as far as Alf could speculate.
They struck out again, this time going around to the rear of houses, chicken houses, and horse and milk-cow sheds on the west side of town.
It was a long walk through moist heat. Mack kept his head slightly to his right until he saw the knoll and the wagons atop it. He pointed out the camp to Alf and led off in that direction.
When they eventually got out there Alf admired the mules and several saddle animals. Evidently these fr
eighters were careful of their animals. Not all freighters were.
A young rosy-cheeked girl popped her head out past the canvas cover near the front of one of the wagons. She had been about to call a greeting to her father. When she saw Alf, her smile faded. She pulled back out of sight and reappeared at the tailgate as her father and Alf strode past in the direction of several seated men in the shade of a waterproof texas, then scrambled down and followed at a discreet distance.
Alf stopped dead-still, staring at the man sitting cross-legged in deep shade. He said, “Paul?”
The hat brim-shaded face came up. Paul looked stonily at Alf, said nothing, and returned to his study of the black stone ring where the freighters cooked their meals.
One of the other freighters showed square teeth in a broad smile and motioned Alf to be seated near a large wagon-wheel. This freighter’s face was bruised, discolored, and slightly puffy.
As Mack squatted his brothers grunted greetings and studied the man Mack had brought back with him. One of them said, “This here is Paul, Mack. Paul Sawyer. He was the only one in good enough shape after the fight at the poolhall to walk all the way out here. Paul’s been tellin’ us a lot of downright interestin’ things.” The freighter’s gaze drifted to Alf. “How about this one?”
Mack eyed his youngest brother, who was lying flat out. “What happened to him?” he asked.
The man who had spoken before glanced around, then said, “He tangled with one that wouldn’t quit. He’ll be eatin’ gruel for a day or two but he’ll be all right.”
The battered freighter lifted his head, winked at Mack, and sank back down.
A mongrel dog limped over to Mack and sat beside him. Mack looked over his shoulder. His daughter was beneath the wagon, eavesdropping. Mack pretended he did not see her and nudged Alf. “Tell ’em what you told me about the lawman and the cowman being partners and all.”
Alf would have spoken immediately, but Paul was eyeing him coldly. Alf cleared his throat first, did not meet his friend’s gaze, and told them everything he knew.
